Author: Sharron Burnett

Never Forgotten

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

memories.jpegA teacher never forgets her students. Like the old woman in the shoe she sometimes has so many children that she doesn’t know what to do. She worries about them as if they were her own, sometimes lying awake at night developing strategies for reaching each of them. Even after they have gone she remembers them and hopes and prays that everything ultimately turned out well. Nothing makes her happier than hearing good news about one of them, especially if if that one had been troubled in the past.

A teacher carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her concern is so prevailing that she must find ways to ameliorate it or become so stressed out that she is unable to function. She joins in the sarcastic gallows humor of the teachers’ lounge. It helps to joke about the challenges that she is facing. Only those who do the same kind of work understand that a good chuckle now and again helps to maintain a positive outlook. Laughing is an imperative exercise for a teacher lest she become so engrossed in the seriousness of what she does that she loses focus. A teacher has to keep things in perspective, but it is often oh so hard.

I find myself thinking back to the students who gave me the most trouble. I’d like to believe that their bad behavior was only a phase and that they are now leading good and happy lives, but I sometimes lose faith. I hear that this one is in prison for armed robbery or that one murdered his girlfriend’s father. I saw the good in them and tried so desperately to bring it to the forefront of their personalities, but once they left my care they were beaten down by toxic environments and the poor choices that they continually made. I sense that it is impossible for me to completely understand how desperate their lives were even though I too had a difficult childhood.

I had the support of a loving family, wonderful neighbors, teachers who cared enough to guide me and a church community that watched over me. So many of my students had no one. They went home to abusive parents who were often drug ridden or alcoholic. Being part of a group meant joining a gang, and there were plenty of those from which to choose. I knew that so many of my kids were affiliated with very dangerous groups that offered them the protection and feeling of belonging that I received from good and caring people.

I often think back to a morning when I was on duty at the back of the school. My task was to keep the students as calm as possible as they gathered before the doors opened at the beginning of the day. As the time for the bell to ring drew nearer the crowd of kids grew by leaps and bounds, requiring me to be especially vigilant. This was one of the most likely moments for a fight to suddenly break out. It was up to me and my fellow teachers to quell excitement before it even happened.

On this particular day there had been no incidents. It was uncharacteristically quiet and when the entry bell rang the students filed dutifully inside. I stayed behind to shoo any stragglers or late comers to their classes. It was a rather lovely morning and I was happy to get a bit more fresh air before being trapped in a room with no windows for the next many hours. I was in the midst of a rather pleasant daydream when I saw two groups of students marching toward each other from opposite sides. My heart began beating in overdrive as I realized that this was not a good thing. I was all too aware of which gang was which and who some of the members were, and it was apparent that a battle was about to ensue.

The students seemed to not even notice that I was standing smack in the middle of their advance, or perhaps they simply chose to ignore me. They continued forward as I attempted to formulate a plan for stopping what was most surely going to happen. Suddenly one of the leaders drew a red bandana from his pocket and tossed it defiantly to the ground without saying a word. I knew that I had to act quickly and so without hesitation I dashed over, picked up the crimson cloth, and smiled at the student who had initiated the challenge saying, “I think you may have dropped something. Here you go. Now run along to class.”

There was a deathly silence from every member of each group and the young man who had formally begun the proceedings looked sternly at me as though I had broken the most sacred of protocols. He was actually one of my favorite students and he seemed to be struggling to decide how to treat my lapse of good manners. I attempted to save face for him by continuing to play the fool. I acted as though I had no idea what kind of battle I had just averted, and still grinning naively I asked them to please hurry into the building noting that I was quite tired and didn’t want to have to fill out tardy slips for such a large group. I then gave my still confused student a stern and knowing look that he interpreted quite correctly. Without ever saying a word he accepted the bandana and stowed it away in his pocket. Glancing briefly at his rivals he motioned with his head to his posse and then turned and led them in the opposite direction sauntering slowing into the building.

The other group stood in stunned silence with expressions that revealed their own confusion, frustration and anger. I simply motioned for them to hurry inside and with a shake of his head their leader complied as well. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had stopped what would surely have been a bloody melee and big trouble for all of the boys whose tempers and pride had become riled up for some reason that I didn’t care to know.

I dutifully reported the incident to the principal so that he might watch for trouble, but there was none on that day or even well into the future. I don’t know if the rival gangs eventually met up off campus, or if they just lost their motivation to battle, but I never had any trouble with any of them again. The boy with the bandana eventually asked me how I knew that he wouldn’t fight once I had intervened. I just reminded him that it was “because I love you and I know that you love me.” He flashed an amused and satisfied smile.

I know that one of the students from that incident is now a Houston police officer and two of them are in prison. As for the rest, I have no idea how things went for them, but I think of them and pray that they eventually found a way to live their lives without violence. I have so many stories and memories that both haunt me and brighten my heart. I will always be a teacher. I will always love my kids.

Human Magic

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colorful-smoke-artistic-abstract-web-headerIt makes perfect sense that mankind would make tools to make their lives easier. It is not so difficult to imagine how people discovered fire or how to use simple machines. What is far more amazing is that we took our inventiveness one step farther and created music, paintings and ultimately writing and acting. In virtually every civilization there have been artists who molded sounds into tunes, stones into drawings and words into stories. In so many ways it is in our creativity that we soar with the angels and rise above the sometimes baseness of our natures. Who else but humans would design lovely fabrics with which to adorn ourselves? What other creatures would craft furniture that is beautiful beyond its usefulness?

I was listening to the music of The Silk Road Ensemble with Yo Yo Ma and I realized that each culture has built instruments to make music that personifies its people. It is in music that we find our very souls. Being able to make lovely sounds merely by manipulating an inanimate object is akin to the miraculous. Those who do it especially well are special gifts to all of us. Music reflects our emotions, moods, identities. It is a evokes a kind of poetry that intimately reveals our spirits.

So too it is with visual art. Humans have always attempted to recreate the wonders of life in stone, on canvas, with electronics. Some among us have the ability to see beyond the obvious and to show their humanity with paint or common objects put together in extraordinary ways. Archeological artifacts demonstrate that far back in time mankind has been drawn to the idea of creating wondrous works that have no real usefulness other than to celebrate the creative abilities of our hands and our brains. Cups are a grand invention for conveying liquids to our lips but our ancestors insisted on making them elegant and beyond ordinary. They derived pleasure from imitating and manipulating nature.

We first used words to communicate and then to teach. Eventually we found that our utterances might also be entertaining. We created plays and novels. We reflected the history of our times with both humor and tragedy. We created heroes and villains and turned words into melodies. We learned how to change our facial expressions and the intonation of our voices to become characters other than ourselves. We became actors from the very beginnings of time to bring the lives of others to life. We trained ourselves to make music with our vocal chords. We created costumes and changed our hair and our faces with makeup made from clays and oils.

We didn’t need to do such things. We might have advanced just fine by only concentrating on science and math but somehow we have always understood that we need the arts. It is in our most creative aspects that we demonstrate our truest genius and how different we are from other creatures.

There was a time when we had far more appreciation for the artists among us. They had wealthy patrons who supported their efforts. They gained a certain level of fame and respect. Now we tell our young to be wary of following dreams of becoming a musician or a painter or even an author. We warn them that they may starve if they try to find a life using the talents that they have been given. Many of them have to enjoy their artistry as a hobby or in the role of a teacher. They are rarely given the same regard as those who can build machines or understand advanced mathematics. We list the careers that pay the most and they are generally in the areas of science, technology, engineering or mathematics. We note that many who would follow a path in the creative arts are starving. All of which is quite sad for those who have special aptitudes in those areas.

One of my daughters tells me of a friend of hers who has an ability to write wondrous tracts. He wishes more than anything to ply his craft for all of his life but until he is discovered, if that ever even happens, he has been reduced to working at jobs that are quite unsatisfying. He is slowly resigning himself to his fate and may one day become a drone who goes to work each day that he secretly hates. It is sad that he has to do that, but it is also quite true of many many people who share his skills and his dreams.

I love to write like that young man. I am not exceptional, but I can be rather entertaining at times. I read books by hack authors that are unrefined and poorly crafted, but they sell millions of copies simply because they are already famous in some way. People flock to their book sales, purchasing their tomes in recognition of what they have already accomplished in other fields. The discovery of new talent is becoming less and less likely. Book publishers have learned that they are more likely to make money from a known entity than from someone who may or may not find an audience. So it is with other artists as well. It takes much hard work, a bit of luck, a great deal of determination and a willingness to be rejected for creative individuals to find a place of acceptance in the world today.

I would tell young people who want to find a career in the arts to take risks before giving up on the idea of such a pathway. It is when people have few responsibilities other than for themselves that they are able to make the sacrifices needed to be noticed. I urge them to be fearless, courageous. There will always be time later for choosing a more secure avenue for living life. I would tell them to pursue those dreams. The worst that might happen is that they may ultimately find that they will have to do something different than what they first desired. The best is that they might actually catch the golden ring and live a life filled with immeasurable satisfaction and happiness. Mankind is magical and there are those who find ways to demonstrate that their talents truly are worth our notice. We will all be the better if they manage to catch our attention. 

The Importance of Stuff

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antiques-booth-1My eyes used to glaze over whenever my mother-in-law began recounting her family history. She had worked quite hard to unravel the mysteries of her ancestry. Her quest for answers paid off with a great deal of information that she excitedly related to us in the hopes that we would remember. At the time I suspect that I was a bit too young to truly care about the names and the tales of which she spoke. Now I am duly fascinated by learning not only of her kin but my own. In some ways my husband and I have become the family historians, the keepers of the the tales and artifacts that bring long dead relatives back to life. I now see such responsibility as an honor and I am belatedly scurrying to preserve the information that I know lest it evaporates when I am gone.

I have rooms of my home filled with furniture and objects that once graced the homes of the people from whom my husband and I descended. I treasure them not so much for their value as for the lives of the people that they represent. I try to tell my children and grandchildren who they belonged to and what they meant to those individuals. I’m not certain that they truly understand. Sadly they are still mostly in the state of mind that I had when my dear mother-in-law tried so hard to get me interested. I suppose that something must have stuck in spite of my lack of enthusiasm, because now I am quite driven to learn even more lest we forget. In fact one of my girls recently laughed at me and called me “Granny” the name that she had for my mother-in-law because I was so insistent that she pay attention to the information that I was conveying.

The world is changing rapidly, sometimes far too quickly for my taste, which is a definite sign of age. I recently read that today’s young people view the antiques and collectibles of their parents and grandparents as junk. They prefer more modern furnishings and tend to donate any old things that they inherit to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. They have big estate sales to get rid of the unwanted items. It makes me a bit sad and worried that so much of what presently resides in my home may one day just become a nuisance to those who are left when I am gone. I would like to believe that in between my two daughters and seven grandchildren surely there will be someone who will step up to be the next keeper of the family flame. My treasures are important to me because they represent real people and are part of the hopes and dreams of their lives.

I have a very old pitcher from my great grandmother, Christina. It doesn’t look like much but it feels magical to know that she once held it in her hands. From my great grandfather, John William Seth Smith, I have discharge papers from the Union army at the end of the Civil War. They hold his signature, the only image of him that I have. That scroll across the paper makes him very much alive in my mind. My grandmother Minnie gave me these things when I was still a very young girl and urged me to care for them always, which I have even when I still did not understand their significance.

There is far more from my mother-in-law. We have beautiful furniture that belonged to her mother, aunt and grandmothers. It is truly quite lovely and enhances our home with style and intersting stories of the people who once owned the pieces. I have to admit to being quite happy that my mother-in-law worked so hard to preserve those memories for us. They link us to both our past and our present and are physical signs of the lives of their owners.

I have dishes, linens, and tableware. Sadly there are books about which I worry because the pages are becoming weak and will one day fall apart, which I suppose is the natural way of things. My favorite is a child’s book that once belonged to my father. It may well have been the first thing that he ever read. Perhaps it even began his love affair with reading. I enjoy looking through the pages but I have to be careful because it has become quite delicate. It must be getting close to being one hundred years old.

I can only hope that there will one day be another who cherishes the humble offerings from the past. Perhaps both of my daughters will truly appreciate the photos and stories that I have saved. They loved their grandmothers so and I suspect that they will want to keep their memories alive at least for the time being. It will be interesting to see who among my grandchildren has a bent for sentimentality.

I try to visit the grave sites of my parents and grandparents and those of my husband’s kin as well. We regularly make a day of bringing flowers and spending time remembering the people who were so much a part of our lives. I sense that we are the only ones in our families who do this anymore because there are no signs that anyone else has visited. It makes me a bit sad to think that the time will come when nobody remembers them or goes to honor them.

I know that many people today think that cremation is the best way to handle death. It is not particularly expensive and it is environmentally friendly. They see little reason to set aside land for eternity just to keep the dust of those who died long ago. They may have a point but there is still something a bit reassuring in those everlasting memorials wherever they may be. I was greatly touched by finding the grave site of my great grandmother Christina. I felt a thrill in being beside her ashes or whatever is left of her. I wanted her to know how things had turned out for at least one of her twelve children and their descendants. I stood in a lonely field with the wind blowing across my face. It was deadly silent save for the chirping of nearby birds. I felt a communion with her that I might otherwise never have had. It was a truly moving moment in which I sensed her life and that of all the women before her. I am but a single link in a chain that will hopefully continue infinitely.

Perhaps I am becoming a bit silly as I grow older. I find myself appreciating things that my mother and mother-in-law did and said far more than I once did. I like thinking about the stories that they told and feeling close to them just from recalling those tidbits about their lives. I like visiting with them in the places where they are buried on sunny afternoons and leaving posies to brighten the places where they now rest. I really do hope that the very young come around in their thinking about the artifacts that were left behind by their ancestors just as I finally did. Things are not so important but the people that they represent are the stuff of who we are.

An Education

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free-spirits-ii-13891She was unlike anyone that I had ever known, a free spirit who seemed to float blissfully above the rules of society. She walked through life as though she owned the world, but in reality had few possessions of any merit. More often than not she kept her feet bare, unfettered, even at formal occasions. She was from the north but boasted that once she had found the south there was no turning back. She was an artist, an intellectual, a high school dropout. I could hear her coming in the battered and ancient pick up truck that was her pride and joy. It allowed her to haul items that might one day come in handy for one of her many projects that were rarely fully completed. Her mind skipped merrily from one idea to another with grand bursts of genius. Such it was with our friendship, glorious kinship until she was drawn like a moth to other places.

When she left we both pledged our fealty and promised that we would make great efforts to stay in touch. I even drove a rather long distance to her new home once, a littered slot in a trailer park that was made merry by a colorful garden that she had planted in an old wooden box. She greeted me warmly and we spent an afternoon sipping on herbal teas and laughing at her stories while her children ran like free range chickens in old fashioned play. She never owned a television and didn’t want one. She preferred entertainment from imagination and it was all she really needed because hers was so vibrant. She reminded me of a gypsy princess, exotically beautiful with a fiery personality. I had seen her face down the devil himself and walk away with her head thrown back in haughty victory.

Her husband was a car mechanic and she was madly in love with him, so much so that she had run away with him on the back of his motorcycle. It broke her parents’ hearts and even her relationship with them for a time. Eventually they came around when they saw how deliriously happy she was. She had left the mundaneness of her upstate New York upbringing for adventures that few of us ever experience. She purposely kept few possessions feeling that they held her back whenever wanderlust took hold. Her family was free to go wherever and whenever the winds blew. There were cars to be repaired by her husband everywhere, and her art was as easily created in a small unknown town as in a large urban area.

Eventually she was gone again, too far away this time to pursue. She was not one for exchanging phone numbers or addresses and our acquaintance was in a time before cell phones, email and social media. Our friendship became only a wonderful memory of time spent with a truly ephemeral spirit. Somehow I had known all along that it would not be a permanent thing. I simply enjoyed the moment, knowing that some people cannot set down roots. They must always be on the go, discovering parts of the world that most of us never see.

I still think of her and so many others who have passed through the parade of people I have known. I wonder if any of them ever realized how much I learned from them, how important they were in shaping me into the person that I am today. Each of us encounter individuals who find their way into our hearts, and while their stay is only temporary their influence is forever. There is something about them that we never quite forget no matter how many years and decades pass. Now and again we think of them and hope that they are doing well.

I gravitated toward strong-willed women at a time when I was shy and weak. I observed their behaviors and learned from them. It was an education without walls, so real and meaningful. I surrounded myself with ladies who had known grief, abuse and hard times. They had emerged with dignity and an unwavering sense of themselves. I was their intern, someone longing to learn from them. Like a sponge I soaked up their spirit and determination to face down whatever challenges arose. They did not have degrees or certifications but they were perhaps the smartest people I had ever known. I encountered them when I was struggling to find myself and they showed me how to be what I wanted to be, not what others wanted for me. They taught me how to respect even the most humble and broken among us, treating them with the dignity that everyone deserves.

I suppose I might attempt to find some of them like Diane or Rosie or Debbie. It isn’t that difficult a task with the Internet and all of its resources. Somehow though, I don’t think that it would be wise to do so. I believe that I was only supposed to know them for a certain time during which they would help me to emerge from my awkward cocoon. Their spirits have remained in my heart and they have been there again and again smiling and guiding me.

They would be old ladies now with middle aged children and perhaps a number of grandchildren. We might not even recognize one another even if we were to pass in a crowd. We went our separate ways long ago. Our personal demands overtook us leaving little time for the idle chit chat that we enjoyed when our babies toddled under our watchful eyes. We each found new homes, new jobs, new adventures that moved us farther and farther apart until one day we had lost each other, but never the memories.

We are the sum total of all of the events and people that we have ever known. Their influence lives inside of us and is even passed down to our children long after our acquaintances are done. We find the individuals that we most need at exactly the right times. It is almost magical the way that happens. There are so many who gave me so much of themselves along my journey who are now strangers. I would so like for them to know how much they helped me and how grateful I am that I once knew them. I’d like to think that things turned out as well for them as they did for me.

Why We Gotta Be So Mean?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

troubled-teens-bully.jpgI truly believe that we humans are mostly good. Still I see far more signs of bullying and ugliness these days than ever before. A friend confided that her son was being mistreated by the girls in his class. He is a very sweet, almost naive soul who can’t quite understand what he may have done to deserve their ire. An acquaintance who is generally a very kind and sensitive person recently took the bait of societal anger and posted an article poking fun at a female political figure. It was quite negative in tone, and unnecessarily so. It’s only purpose was to be cruel and so it stunned me to see this normally good hearted individual becoming part of the negative crowd. It seems as though just living in the world today can quickly devolve into a blood sport.

There is a certain anonymity that comes with the impersonal nature of social media. Being part of a group that initiates callousness feels safe and without consequence. Bandying about words seems a harmless joke given the old saw that sticks and stones can break our bones, but words will never hurt us. Besides, don’t some of our leaders get by with verbal attacks with impunity? What does it really matter to vent our feelings? Shouldn’t people be mature enough to handle our truths?

Thus we find posts on Facebook that create confrontations and tweets on Twitter that seem to revel in their use of cleverly noxious words. There are those among us who have lost their sense of propriety and are even celebrated for their ability to get a rise from some unsuspecting soul. When such attacks occur frequently enough the inflicted pain can become unbearable and then depression and fear follow quite naturally.

We have tried to instruct our children in how to handle the barbs that may come their way. We teach youngsters to curb any tendencies to be bullies and to help those who are victims. Somehow none of our efforts ever completely take hold. No matter how hard we try the ugliness persists and at times even appears to grow, making life quite difficult for those who are the butt of mean spirited behaviors.

There are celebrities like Lady Gaga who pour themselves into the task of helping to reduce bullying. She has created a brigade of young folks who are trained to encourage and celebrate acts of kindness. The hope is that focusing on the positive natures of humans just might mitigate the more negative aspects of the way we treat one another. It’s a glorious idea and bears watching. God knows that we have nothing to lose by actively trying to improve the ways that we interact. Those who demonstrate concern should become our winners, our heroes, not those whose overbearing remarks and actions wound and leave scars.

I read about a school where the students are encouraged to look for anyone who is seemingly alone and welcome that person into a warm and friendly circle. The young people who have adopted this attitude are finding that they are learning as much about themselves as they are about their classmates. They report that everyone feels safer and better understood.

A little boy in a small town heard about a police officer who was killed in the line of duty. The newscasters spoke of how devastated the fellow officers were, so the child decided to donate his Wii to the station. He remarked that playing the games usually made him feel better even when he was sad and he hoped that the bereaved men and women would find solace in the activities that they would be able to share together.

There are good people everywhere who do the most remarkable things without ever expecting credit or even thanks for their efforts. I still recall a young woman who helped me to feel welcome on my first day of teaching in a new school. I can envision her beautiful smile and hear her encouraging words. Somehow she sensed my nervousness and did her best to assuage my fears. Her thoughtfulness made a discernible difference.

I can only imagine how much more wonderful the world would become if we all tried very hard to turn our temptations to be angry or insulting into opportunities to be caring. It takes so little to be nice but it really does turn the tables. Instead of answering anger with anger we might try showing patience and understanding. Love should always trump hate or as someone has said, “When they go low, we go high.”

I suppose that the most difficult situations are those in which we find ourselves facing someone who is blatantly obnoxious. We might simply ignore that person, especially if we sense that attempting to change him/her is impossible. Walking away is not cowardice. Sometimes it’s the bravest thing we might do.

We should also consider answering unpleasantness with warmth. Sometimes it is possible to disarm the negativity by countering it with understanding. I was involved in an incident in which a parent was loudly upbraiding a colleague at one of my schools. When I asked her to calm down she cursed me and told me to mind my own business. I quietly left the scene and came back with cold drinks, snacks and an invitation to come to the comfort of my office. The lady seemed stunned by my calmness and my small gesture of hospitality. Her demeanor became more relaxed as I told her that as a mother I understood her passionate concern for her child. I suggested that together we might be able to devise a plan that would help. Before long we were all partners in an effort to set things right. The ill feeling had disappeared on all sides.

It is doubtful that we will ever eliminate all of the cruelty that exists but we can make focused efforts to do our own parts to approach our daily lives with a sensitivity to the needs of those with whom we interact. We should strive to consciously compliment rather than criticize, smile rather than frown, find common ground rather than dwell on differences. We really don’t have to be so mean. We can change someone’s state of mind simply by remembering to be kind.